


First in Line

by stuckinastory



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Oldfic, a Friday Five fic, do the kids even know what that is?, from LJ to AO3, this is from 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23257675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckinastory/pseuds/stuckinastory
Summary: A little girl decided she had to be better, all of the time.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 4
Kudos: 95





	First in Line

  1. _Eight years, five months, and ten days_.



Miriam Princhek is first in class, best in English, Math, and Science. She has gone to two spelling bees, has won regional math competitions, has received the blue ribbon at last year’s science fair for her work on recycling, and is now class president. Her teachers and the school are convinced that she would go places, and her parents and siblings are proud of her. She is the talk, the child wonder, of Charles Johnson Elementary. Her long, blonde hair and her sparkling blue eyes are recognizable in the neighborhood. It somehow diverts people’s attention from the fact that she and her siblings are first-generation Americans, and that their parents are famous in the town for keeping a quiet little grocery store that barely sends her and her siblings to school.

However, though she may be first in most things, Miriam Princhek is also first in line, which means that she is the shortest girl in her class. She also wears wide, round-framed glasses that she will throw away and completely abhor someday, but for now she shyly stands in line, listening to the taller girls snicker, giggle, and call her names as the teacher scolds the other girls. The other boys follow and soon the teacher gives them all a long and proper scolding. During recess, she sits on the swing alone, as dark-haired, tall Anne Smithson walks up next to her and offers her half of her sandwich. Miriam takes it as Anne sits on the other swing quietly.

“Don’t mind them,” Anne quietly says, her voice reminding Miriam of the soft, cool breeze during spring. She nods and takes a small bite out of the sandwich. “They’re just jealous.”

“But it’s true. I am short.”

“So? You’re smart. They’re just jealous because the teachers like you better.”

“Don’t you find it funny that I’m shorter than you?”

“No. You’re nice, you’re smart, and you’ll be better than they are.”

“I won’t be as beautiful.” Miriam replied, tucking the sandwich into her pocket.

“Who knows how you’ll look like when you’re older?”

“I do.” Miriam said. She watched the leaves fall before she looked at her classmate again. “I know I’ll look like my mother. And the people near our house don’t say she’s pretty.”

The two of them sighed and moved their swings a bit, as a few leaves fell down from the trees surrounding the playground. Miriam then knew that if she had to make the girls stop giggling, she would have to do something about her place in line. She would be better. She would be smarter, prettier, and taller. She had to be, all the time.

  
  
  


  1. _Sixteen years, eleven months, and fifteen days._



Miriam Princhek is no longer the laughingstock of her class, or of any class for that matter. Her mother now has her own clinic in their home and her father’s old grocery store is better than ever. Her siblings are going off to college, and in a few years, so will she. She has enough money to spend on her clothes, and on _Runway_ , the magazine she unequivocally worships and reads from cover to cover. She’s still top of her class, sure, but the girls who follow her like a flock of pigeons hovering over the synagogue know better than to call her a ‘nerd’. The boys from school all wait at her door, begging for a chance to have her alone on a date.

Miriam smiles through it all—she has done it. This was even better than when she won the Spelling Bee for the third time in a row (the last word had been ‘zwitterion’, how amateurish) while winning the state cheerleading championship three days later. She walks through the halls, mindful of how everybody is looking at her, and opens the door to the publication’s office of their school paper—The Johnson Chronicle—and sits down on a chair near her favorite teacher, Mr. Matthews. He has the folder that would bring her one step closer to any college that she wants, and to what she wants right now—the editorship of the school paper. She has worked hard, turned in article after article, and won herself and the paper a few awards. Why not?

Mr. Matthews then watches as the rest of the staff comes in, and when the last member of the paper arrives, he closes the door and takes five minutes of silence. It kills Miriam to wait. She has to find out, right now. She has to know what else she could add to her growing resume.

“Alright,” The balding, sweater-wearing Mr. Matthews then says, clapping his hands briefly before he sits on the desk. The sweater is cerulean and makes him look a few pounds heavier than he already is. “I guess you’re all dying to find out who our new editor is.”

“Yes.” The room choruses in reply, with no hint of interest betrayed.

“Okay.” Mr. Matthews hops off the desk. He then goes behind it and takes out the folder. “After careful deliberation and a battery of tests, I am pleased to introduce you all to your newest editor-in-chief, Ms. Anne Smithson.” A round of applause starts and ends a minute later.

Miriam watches as Anne stands up and makes a speech. She doesn’t hear what she says, and she certainly doesn’t want to listen. She looks up at the girl standing before her. She is a traitor—a lying, scheming, soulless excuse for a friend. Anne has taken what Miriam has wanted the most, after Miriam had given her what any girl on campus would want—the smartest, most popular girl in school as her best friend, membership of an exclusive clique, and popularity by way of being connected to Miriam. Right then and there, Miriam decides. She will cut Anne off her clique and tell everyone, through one person, how she stole the position from Miriam. She will find out how this has happened, how she would be passed over for some brunette who could barely walk in stilettos until Miriam taught her how. She is a liar, she is a cheat, and Miriam will go to all lengths to expose her. She would never be Miriam’s best friend, ever again.

After the meeting, Anne follows Miriam quickly to the girls’ bathroom. Miriam looks at her piercingly, not wanting to hear an explanation, but interested in whatever excuse she might have. She is interested to see how Anne will try to preserve their already lost friendship.

She purses her lips. Anne is silent. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry, Miriam. I didn’t mean to do this to you.”

“You didn’t mean to do what?” Miriam then asks, leaning on the counter. She raises an eyebrow slightly. “You didn’t mean to go behind my back and stab me?”

“Yes, I didn’t mean to do that,” Anne says, and Miriam watches her lip quiver. She watches her oldest, dearest friend hold back her tears and avoid looking at her. “But I wanted it. I knew how much you wanted it, but you have so much. You have everything. I thought that maybe you wouldn’t mind if I went after this too. I’m really, really sorry.”

Miriam’s face softens at the last word. Sorry. She then looks at her best friend again. Anne means it, means the apology with all her heart that Miriam has to reconsider. This was the person who stood by her when she wasn’t the pretty little blonde that the entire school loved. This was the person who saw and talked to her when she was a hideous little thing being ridiculed by the rest of their class. This was the one person that she had trusted. And this is the one person that she can’t hurt, no matter how hard she might try. Anne was her best friend. She won’t.

Against her own instincts, she opens her arms. Anne rushes in and embraces her, muttering ‘I’m so sorry’ like a mantra. They break off, and Miriam wipes the traces of tears on Anne’s face. How could she even think of harming her best friend in the whole word?

“Miriam, I’m really, really sorry.” Anne says again, after they break off.

They open their arms again and hug.

“We’re best friends, right?” Anne asks, trying a smile. “And best friends forever?” 

Miriam smiles at her friend. She then hugs Anne and mutters, “Best friends forever.”

  
  
  


  1. _Twenty-seven years, two months, and five days._



Miranda Priestly looks fondly at the photos in the scrapbook that her mother had sent her after her first week in the college. It had been helpful in keeping her from missing her old hometown, but if truth be told, she doesn’t miss much of it at all especially since one Anne Smithson screwed her over and stole her boyfriend from her. It made her want to get out of town and move into the city that she had always dreamt of right away, and now there she was, in New York City, working her ass off at _Runway_ as its youngest features editor and forgetting her old life. It had been years after the fact, but the betrayal still stung like a bitch. And though the rest of the school and her other ‘friends’ has practically disowned Anne and made her miserable for the last few months of her senior year, she still gave her a graduation gift, never mind that all she got in return was watching her ex-boyfriend wrap his arms around her ex-best friend and kiss her.

So after that fact, she went on to college, graduated, and stayed at an old apartment. She changed her name, after a series of letters between her and her mother, deciding that if she was to succeed in the fashion industry, she would have to use a more sophisticated name, and ‘Miriam Princhek’ didn’t exactly evoke style and substance. Her mother and father had no other choice but to write back and accept her decision. There was no other thing that they could do.

Miranda looks up from the scrapbook and looks at the door. There was someone knocking, no, actually banging on her door, as though the first floor were on fire. Miranda walked as calmly as she could and opened the door. It was the new intern at Runway. She had short, dark hair, and looked more exotic than Anne, but still. Occasionally, Miranda had heard a little lilt to her voice, betraying her own origins.

She knew better than to make friends with any more dark-haired women, not wanting to risk the chance of getting screwed over again.

Miranda raises an eyebrow at her visitor. The woman looked harried, hair only ever so slightly out of place, but enough to highlight her distress.

“Ms. Priestly,” The younger woman exhaled. “Tom told me to bring this to you.”

“Miranda,” Miranda enunciated, letting the younger woman know that she wouldn’t take any of that Ms. Priestly bullshit. “And I personally do not recall being transferred to the art department. The Book is not to be carried around like some sort of handbag. Why does he want me to see it?”

“I’m sorry, Miranda,” The younger woman replied, inflecting every word with her accent. “But Tom insisted that I bring this to you before Helena sees it. He says you have a good eye.” She extended her hand and Miranda accepted the Book, not knowing what else to say. She let the woman in.

  
  


  1. _Forty-five years, six months, three days_



She is sitting at a café in Paris, enjoying the sights, taking in the outfits of the people passing by, and sitting next to her new friend. She had kept in touch with the intern until she had to go back to her native Paris. Miranda easily envied her. Who would come to America if they were born in France, in Paris to be exact, the fashion capital of the world? She would still shake her head at the fact sometimes. But she and Jacqueline were toasting to their successes—she had been recently promoted to the editorship of French _Runway_ and Miranda had just gotten married and was celebrating her 15th year as the editor-in-chief of American _Runway_ —and Miranda knew that she had a friend for life, so there was no use thinking about random trivia.

“Ah, Paris,” Jacqueline exclaimed. Miranda sometimes enjoyed her naiveté. The younger woman still looked at the city as though she wasn’t born there. Miranda wished that she could look at New York like that every day, but it was difficult. “What do you plan to do all week?”

Miranda looked up from her cup of coffee and raised an eyebrow. What else is there to do in Paris during Fashion Week?

“Well, Miranda, you cannot tell me that you would be busying yourself with clothes all week,” Jacqueline commented, sending a ‘tsk’ sound her way. “Ah, but maybe you are. Where is Richard?”

“Richard couldn’t come. He had a speaking engagement in Los Angeles.”

“Lawyers,” Jacqueline replied, ‘tsk’ing again. “They dress well. But that doesn’t take away the fact that some of them are Philistines, always dressing up, never properly informed.”

Miranda smiled at the remark and took a sip of her coffee. “What are we here for? Make Richard an exception, though. He can tell you who designs his clothes.” Jacqueline smiled at Miranda’s remark. Of course Richard would know. Miranda never would have given him the time of day if he had no inkling about fashion. “You should come to New York and meet him. I’m sure he would be delighted to meet an old friend of mine. When can you visit?”

“I will be coming to New York, cherie,” Jacqueline said, her face lighting up. “And sooner than you think. Send your wonderful husband my regards.”

Miranda nodded slightly and smiled again. Her phone then rang. She excused herself and went outside. Nigel called to inform her about an informal meeting that he walked on with Irv and Jacqueline. She cast glances on her longtime friend. Before Nigel could get to the gist of the whole thing, she hung up. It was painfully obvious and she wished not to hear more of it. Jacqueline gave her a mildly interested look as she took her purse.

“Leaving so soon? Is there an emergency?” Jacqueline asked. “Has one of your assistants been refusing to eat again to fit into her clothes?” She then gave a delighted little chuckle. “Never mind. I shall see you in New York in a few weeks, Miranda.”

“Yes.” Miranda replied. “I shall see you in New York.”

Jacqueline gave her one last smile before she walked out of the café.

She had not taken revenge the first time. She had been kind. She had been merciful. She had been a good friend. But as her driver pulled up to the curb, she cast one last long look at Jacqueline and knew that she had to fight back. She would not let what was rightfully hers be taken away from her again.

  
  


  1. _Fifty-seven years, one month, twelve days._



Miranda Priestly walked down the hall into her bedroom. She’d had a very long day, and wanted nothing more than to rest. As usual, the shoot went wrong, the models looked almost soulless, and she had to contend with fifty mistakes before she drank her second cup of coffee. Had Andrea not called during lunch, she would have fired another second assistant again. ("Darling, let it go," She almost cooed over the phone. If it were anyone else, Miranda would have throttled them.)

Andrea. Miranda smiled to herself as she allowed her mind to wander to the topic of her lover. Andrea certainly knew how to please her, although it could be anybody’s guess how long it took for her to do just that and save her job. But she was good at her job, and at so many other things, that Miranda let her go after that Paris fiasco that no one at the office, save for Nigel, would ever talk about.

It doesn’t matter now.

Andrea came back, came back for _her_ , and well, it could be said that she had atoned for her earlier lapse in judgment in a very unconventional way.

Miranda opened the door and was greeted by a very interesting sight. Andrea was leaning on a post of her four-poster bed in nothing else except her lingerie, giving her a small grin. She grinned back, meaning to say how she was just thinking of Andrea before she entered their bedroom, but before she could utter a single word, Andrea sauntered over to her and pressed her against the door, easily divesting her of her handbag and the first two buttons of her blouse.

“I was thinking about you all day.” Andrea breathed, as she started sucking on Miranda’s neck. Miranda uttered a low moan and felt Andrea’s smile on her skin. “About us.”

“Oh,” Miranda replied, as she felt her knees turn into Jell-O. “You were?”

“Yes,” Andrea said, as she tossed Miranda’s blouse and pants on the floor. “Miranda Priestly, I'm going to fuck you so hard that you wouldn’t be able to walk, much less walk in your favorite pair of stilettos.” She grinned at Miranda. And then had the audacity to wink. "That's a promise."

Miranda then gulped as Andrea raised an eyebrow and started kissing her all over again.

A few hours later, they were both awake, worn out and sweaty from the night’s activities. She and Andrea sat up on the bed, each holding a glass of water.

It always astonished her how Andrea could do that to her. How she could just make her so vulnerable, so helpless, and so unlike herself, but still make her enjoy that feeling. Complete and utter surrender. Mind, body, and soul. How had Andrea succeeded where no one else has? Her, and not the two husbands or the smattering of boyfriends in between, She often wondered if the brunette lying next to her had been with other women in her lifetime. She did hear that it wasn’t an odd thing in college these days, and it wasn’t a big issue as it was at the time. But she never had the time to ask about it. Maybe she could get an answer now, if Andrea wasn’t up to her usual bag of tricks.

“Andrea,” She said, taking a precautionary sip of her water. “Have you done this before?”

Andrea looked at her and smiled. She mimicked Miranda and took a sip of her water. “Are you asking me if I have ever slept with a former boss of mine before?” As Miranda rolled her eyes, she let out an undignified chuckle. “I’m afraid I haven’t. And you?”

“No, of course not,” Miranda replied hastily. “I wasn’t asking about that.”

“Oh.” Andrea’s brown eyes widened, and her hair flipped perfectly as she faced Miranda. "This conversation is slowly becoming more interesting.” Miranda raised her eyebrow at her as she made the connection and grinned. “You want to know if I’ve been with a woman before.”

Miranda held her breath and waited for all of three seconds. Andrea was mocking her. More than that, she was teasing her. Andrea knew that she hated having to be teased like that.

“No, I haven’t.” Andrea replied almost flippantly. “I’ve always been straight.” She then ran a hand down Miranda’s side, sending little jolts and shivers down her spine. The younger woman then went on top of her and smiled slightly. “You’re in luck. You’re my first.”

Miranda found herself smiling back, but before she could say anything, she blurted out, to her horror, “And according to one Andrea Sachs, do I make a good first?”

"Yes. And only. I'm not letting you go, Priestly." Andrea grinned impossibly wider and kissed her, placing both glasses on the bedside table. Miranda then looked up at those brown eyes, so innocent, so full of promise, and so willing to love her, after everything that she’s seen. Andrea gave her a small wink as she turned back to her side of the bed and proceeded to sleep, holding Miranda close to her.

And as Miranda felt sleep slowly take hold of her, she smiled at the fact that sometimes, it paid to be the first in line.


End file.
